


Be Mine

by Tenoko1



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Crowley invented Valentines Day, Gift Giving, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Ineffable Idiots (Good Omens), M/M, Valentine's Day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-20
Updated: 2020-07-20
Packaged: 2021-03-05 00:41:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,675
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25405552
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tenoko1/pseuds/Tenoko1
Summary: Crowley had been given a commendation for creating Valentine’s Day.Hell gave him another one when the holiday was commercialized on.That had sort of also been Crowley’s doing however unintentionally.‘What? You haven’t heard, angel? It’s Valentine’s Day! Day of the year you’re supposed to buy flowers and chocolates and give them to people!’‘B-but… it’s a holiday celebrating… lovers, Crowley.’‘Six thousand years we’ve known each other, Aziraphale! We had the Arrangement, have been raising Warlock together, we’re trying to save the world together-- I’d say we’repretty committedby most standards, wouldn’t you say? Oh, don’t make that face! Look, what better excuse to indulge in worldly delights than under the banner oftradition? I brought fine wine, fancy chocolates, and flowers to go by the till. You can’t very wellignorehuman custom and tradition, now can you?’
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 41
Kudos: 109





	Be Mine

**Author's Note:**

> Older ficlet I posted on my blog but not here.
> 
> To make sure you don't miss any updates or fics not posted to AO3, be sure to check out [this Tumblr post](https://tenoko1.tumblr.com/post/179156377623/how-you-can-support-creators) about updates, x-posting, announcements, schedules, and works that _don't_ get posted to AO3.

The clock on the wall filled the cavernous silence of the minimalistic apartment with its tic, tic, tic.

Sprawled in the golden throne chair at his desk, Crowley’s long, narrow finger tapped in time with the metronome beat as he sat in a shroud of darkness. His glasses were folded on the dark wood of the immaculate desk, jaw jutted to the side as he stared out the window at the Thames and Buckingham Palace.

The light drifting in through the windows was pale, more glow than directional, and not really able to penetrate the gloom as dark as Crowley’s mood.

He watched, finger tapping along with the clock, as humans busily went about their day, automobiles and pedestrians alike. Despite the snow, there were idiotic fools running alongside the Thames in a self-inflicted punishment, like if they prostrated themselves enough, repented and tortured themselves enough, it might spare them Death’s impartial attention.

So many tiny, moving pieces… all of them insignificant. No wonder God abandoned them all so easily-- Heaven and Hell included in that.

He watched yet another pedestrian walking, mostly covered in layers from head-to-toe, and clutching the strings to a bouquet of heart-shaped balloons.

Crowley snorted.

What did humans know of love? Of devotion? God Herself-- a being, supposedly, made of love-- couldn’t even love them enough to stick around. To not cast them aside or save them from Heaven’s punishment the moment they deviated from their regularly scheduled programming.

Of all the tricks and mischief Crowley had ever pulled, it was Valentine’s Day he regretted the most. It came back to bite him in the ass year after year. Punishment for his hubris, perhaps. There was a lesson to be learned given how his cleverness always ended up his misfortune but damned if he knew what the lesson was.

He’d been given a commendation for creating Valentine’s Day.

Hell gave him another one when the holiday was commercialized on.

That had sort of _also_ been Crowley’s doing however unintentionally.

_‘What? You haven’t heard, angel? It’s Valentine’s Day! Day of the year you’re supposed to buy flowers and chocolates and give them to people!’_

_‘B-but… it’s a holiday celebrating…_ lovers _, Crowley.’_

_‘Six thousand years we’ve known each other, Aziraphale! We had the Arrangement, have been raising Warlock together, we’re trying to_ save the world _together-- I’d say we’re_ pretty committed _by most standards, wouldn’t you say? Oh,_ don’t _make that face! Look, what better excuse to indulge in worldly delights than under the banner of tradition? I brought fine wine, fancy chocolates, and flowers to go by the till. You can’t very well_ ignore _human custom and tradition, now can you?’_

Gift-giving on Valentine’s Day… well, it was an excuse to buy things for Aziraphale-- or to give him things Crowley had already bought and set aside-- and, somehow... his lie became a wide-spread tradition, and then was commercialized.

Now, the superficial holiday was a slap in the face every blessed year because there was no escaping it.

Bringing the tumbler to his lips, the ice clinked against glass as Crowley downed the last of his drink.

Tapping the rim of the glass in-time with the ticking of the clock, amber liquid bubbled up from the bottom of the glass like oil from the ground. Crowley continued to sip his drink and tap-tap-tap the arm of his throne, yellow eyes narrowed.

Crowley’d be the first to admit he was prone to dramatics, but he was _not_ one for brooding. If Crowley was still and silent, deep in his own head, well… a wise man would be afraid. _Skin-crawling-terror_ afraid.

But brooding…

Brooding meant _caring_ . It meant being _invested_ in the outcome of something. It meant you had something to _lose_ . Nothing monetary or superficial, no, something _deeply personal_. 

Caring was not something demons did.

It was not something _Crowley_ did.

But.

_Hypothetically_ … were Crowley to find himself in such a darkly effusive mood it would frustrate him like a grain of sand beneath his eyelid. And if he was, _hypothetically_ , in such a state on Valentine’s Day, when the holiday had never bothered him before-- not _really_ , not like _this--_ then _what_ was different and _why_?

Irritation roiled inside him, violence barely contained as it ran through the veins beneath his skin. He wanted to bare his teeth and rage, flip his desk and scatter his papers in a cacophony of sound. He wanted to explode like a chemical reaction, send his drink shattering against the far wall, loud and sudden, liquid and glass cascading to the floor. He wanted to throw everything he owned-- rend them, break them-- one-by-one, tear down the walls and watch it all burn.

Once, thousands and thousands of years earlier, before Earth even existed, Crowley had raged as he felt compelled to now. He’d had every reason to, unjustly punished and lashing out. Since when were questions _crimes_ ? How were they to ensure Her vision if they couldn’t _understand_ the Plan or Her thinking? To what end they were working?

Crowley had Fallen, and then he had _raged_. He raged until he was too blessed tired, too exhausted and apathetic to be angry. It did him no good. She wasn’t listening.

_Well your faith was strong but you needed proof_

His uncontained fury had been understandable.

_She tied you to her kitchen chair_

_And she broke your throne and she cut your hair_

_And from your lips she drew the Hallelujah_

Where wrath once coursed through his veins, had sung like an unholy choir beneath his skin... numb indifference settled in. No fire could burn forever. The more out of control the flames, the faster they smouldered to ash.

This wasn’t even the aftermath of loss.

It was foreboding. The sense something was beyond the point of no return, already so wrong as to be unfixable. It was the expectation of horrible news, the loss of something taken for granted. It was waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

That was it, wasn’t it? Crowley was waiting for the last of the dominoes to fall in the aftermath of the world not ending.

He was waiting to lose Aziraphale.

That was why he was preemptively wanting to rage and mourn a loss that threatened to undo him as the Fall never had. That was why he’d unconsciously been avoiding the bookshop and its angelic owner. It was why Valentine’s Day felt like a slap in the face.

He’d created the holiday as an excuse to be social with Aziraphale when neither side would have permitted such things. When they had the Arrangement and quotas to fill, missions that cancelled each other out, so there was always some convenient thread to grasp at as a reason to drop into Aziraphale’s space.

But the world hadn’t ended, and they no longer had sides or missions, which meant… it meant Crowley didn’t have any sort of excuse to be around Aziraphale.

It meant Aziraphale no longer had a reason to associate with a demon.

What was Crowley supposed to do? Saunter into the bookshop all ‘ _Oi, angel, how goes it? Thought I’d pop in for no reason other than I like being around you_ ’ or ‘ _It’s valentine’s day, Aziraphale! I didn’t start this tradition for a commodation, y’know. How else was I supposed to be sentimental and a romantic when demons aren’t meant to be either thing_ ’ or Crowley could show up with wine, his best bottle, get them both exceedingly drunk, and when Aziraphale asked the obvious-- ‘ _Why are you here?_ ’-- well…

Crowley could play it off. Dismiss his presence as habit. Yes, silly him, having forgotten they don’t have to be around each other anymore or devise ways to thwart the Great Plan. _Just be on my then, yeah, angel? Suppose I won’t see you around now that we don’t have to. Have a good life. It’s only eternity_.

If Crowley thought staring into eternity as a demon, tossed out and cut off from the only home he’d ever known, had been terrifying… it was nothing compared to the idea of eternity without Aziraphale.

It was Valentine’s Day that made the pieces click into place.

The war was over. They didn’t have sides. Crowley didn’t have the weakest of excuses to be around Aziraphale, and it struck him that things had never been the reverse. 

Crowley went out of his way for frivolous excuses to drop by the shop or invite Aziraphale out for a night at the theatre. Had always feigned ignorance when they ‘stumbled across one another’ while working missions.

The world was more than six thousand years old and consisted of seven-and-a-half-billion people, sixty-five-hundred languages, seven continents, one-hundred-and-ninety-five countries, seven seas, and five oceans, but exactly one angel Crowley’s path kept intersecting with.

 _Coincidence_? Not blessed likely. Crowley was a plotter and schemer, after all.

The only reason Aziraphale remained stationed on Earth was because of Crowley’s intervention.

But all of that… was over. Their entire existence on Earth, the way they’d operated, the very basis for their every interaction… was different. Was gone.

Crowley didn’t know how to be friends with Aziraphale without some ruse as an excuse to be around him. And it had always been Crowley with the thinly-veiled reasons to talk to invite the angel out to the park or theatre, just has it had been thinly-veiled reasons to buy him gifts and flowers. To wine and dine Aziraphale as one might a lover.

They weren’t even thinly-veiled, really. Not with the way Hell had caught on more than once, prompting Crowley’s need for insurance measures and holy water. Aziraphale was just… He got so focused on what was right in front of him, he didn’t see anything around him. Fretted about being a good angel to the point he never noticed how bad Crowley was as being a demon.

A knock, out of rhythm with the clock, made Crowley’s finger still.

He waited, his yellow eyes sliding to the phone he’d set to Do Not Disturb, the lack of messages flashing on the screen. None of his associates would dare show up unannounced, and the doorman to the building, as well as the security guard, would certainly never knock without notice. They’d have no reason to, anyway.

The knock came again.

Crowley contemplated dropping whatever poor, lost, soon-to-be-damned soul into the Thames.

The pale light seeping through the windows was cold as Crowley made his way through the flat, his plants curling into each other as they quivered and shrunk away from him.

“There had better be a blessed good reason--” Crowley snarled, thin fingers turning the knob and yanking open the door to his flat, before his jaw went slack and his words died off.

Aziraphale stood there, face apprehensive and bottom lip red and swollen from where he had been worrying it between his teeth. In his hands, there was a wicker basket overflowing with a flowering jasmine plant.

When Crowley opened the door, Aziraphale sagged, tension wiped from his muscles like words from a whiteboard.

“Oh good,” sighed Aziraphale. “You’re alright.”

Crowley stared at his red bottom lip, and then dragged his gaze down to the fragrant jasmine he held, trying to pair the two with Aziraphale’s presence on his doorstep and coming up with ‘aardvark’ by way of explanation.

Reaching up to adjust his glasses, Crowley remembered he wasn’t wearing them. He blinked and squinted. “Angel… what are you doing here?”

It came out the same as one might ask, ‘Are you lost?’ The sentiment was much the same. The only time Aziraphale came to Crowley’s flat was to water his plants when Crowley was out of town on a mission. Crowley wasn’t even sure he came by for that or if he miracled them as he had the Dowling’s garden during their employment.

“It, uh, i-it’s Valentine’s Day,” said Aziraphale. Their eyes met, and Crowley watched worry morph into uncertainty. “Y-you haven’t, well, you haven’t come by the shop. Today.” A line formed between Crowley’s brows, and Aziraphale’s face grew pink. “You _always_ come by on Valentine’s Day. I-it’s practically tradition.” As his face grew darker, Aziraphale thrust out the plant. “This is for you. By the way. For Valentine’s Day.”

“What?”

Blush fading, concern crept back into Aziraphale features, and he reiterated, “It’s _Valentine’s Day_ , Crowley. You haven’t come by the _shop_ . I got _worried_ .” The basket of jasmine flowers shifted. “ _This_ is for you. ...may I come in?”

It was a trap. And not even a good one.

“You _never_ come to my flat,” he said, eyes narrowed. “And you’ve _never_ gotten me something for Valentine’s Day.”

“You have rather unpredictable tastes, even _you_ have to admit,” Aziraphale accused. “As often as you accuse me of living in the past, did you really think I’d ever be able to settle on something you wouldn’t laugh at me for?” he asked with a pout. “With this, at least, well… it goes along with your interests, and I didn’t think you had any flowering plants. It’s very pretty. And it smells nice. _And_ it can be used to make tea. I-it’s not much, but at least I knew it was something you wouldn’t consider ridiculous.”

Crowley blinked and stared, mouth parting. Was he being serious? One, Crowley had never thought Aziraphale considered giving him a gift in return. They spent the entire day together, of course, tucked away in the cozy warmth of the bookshop, drinking wine and eating chocolate, eventually breaking out games to play by the fire. And in the evening, Azirpahale invited Crowley out to a restaurant they’d never been to together, but that was… well, sort of a tradition all on its own.

“Why would you not come?” Aziraphale asked, bottom lip between his teeth.

Crowley swallowed. “I didn’t have a reasonable excuse, what with neither of us having sides anymore.”

“Excuse? I thought the excuse was that it’s Valentine’s Day.”

“Well, yes, but--”

“And we always spend it together.”

“We do, but…”

“But?”

“I didn’t think you’d want to.” Jerking, Aziraphale hugged the basket to his chest looking affronted. “The world’s saved, we don’t have sides anymore, and we don’t have orders--”

“What has that to do with anything? Not all of our time together was spent trying to stop Armageddon, Crowley.”

“Well, yes, but-- we had our respective roles, could say we were stopping the other from doing their job! I-it’s not the same as just… just…” Crowley waved a hand up and down toward where Aziraphale stood on his doorstep.

“...doing it because you want to,” Aziraphale said carefully, head turned and eyes narrowed, trying to work out Crowley’s thinking.

Crowley folded his arms and jerked his face away. “Was just saving you the effort of asking what I was doing there.”

“Am I not reason enough?”

“You’re my only reason,” Crowley blurted, then caught himself, tried to smooth out his features like he hadn’t plainly shown his hand. “I… just… with no missions and no sides, I thought…”

Aziraphale blinked, blue eyes widening with understanding. “You thought I wouldn’t want you around.” He sighed, a puff of air and a raised brow that were resigned and exasperated. “Oh, Crowley. Do you _honestly think_ I ended up in France during the French Revolution because I got _peckish_ ? Or that I didn’t see a Nazi double-cross coming a mile away? What about the other times you’ve come to my rescue? Do you _really_ think I’m so naive or danger-prone I _stumbled into_ those messes rather than orchestrating them?”

“You… _what_?”

“It’s not as though I could find _you_ so our paths crossed,” snipped Aziraphale defensively, “but _you_ seemed able to _find me_ . I learned how to utilize that, and what level of danger to put myself in before you’d show. Getting discorporated, as it turns out.” He thrust the basket into Crowley’s arms. “It’s _Valentine’s Day_. And you didn’t show.”

Aziraphale pushed inside the flat, bypassing Crowley and heading for the plant room. Crowley followed, clutching the gift to his chest, the fragrance of the flowers like a perfume overtaking his senses. The simple wicker basket overflowing with tiny white blossoms was cheerful, homey. Crowley swept his gaze around, taking in the dark colour palette, the strict minimalistic aesthetic he’d adopted. Then, he watched Aziraphale scratch the underside of several leaves like one might a cat under the chin. Aziraphale cooed, speaking softly to the plants in a cadence that was warm even while Crowley couldn’t make out the words. The plants puffed up and leaned toward Aziraphale, seeking his touch and affection in a way Crowley could relate to. Like a stray, neglected and starved for love. Empty.

Crowley swept his gaze around the flat again, thinking of the clutter of books filling Aziraphale’s shop, the numerous mementoes and treasured memories. Thinking of how much he loved wiling away the hours there. For all it’s quirks and simplicity, it was welcoming and loved.

Nothing like his flat, which was owned but didn’t look lived in or loved.

“I didn’t know what to say,” Crowley finally admitted. Aziraphale pet a fern and tickled its leaves, his smile bemused and expression fixed. Wrapping his arms tighter, Crowley cast his gaze off to the side, fixed it unseeing on a point where the wall met with the floor. “We don’t have sides. Or missions. I asked you to run away, but our lives were on the line. I suddenly realized… without missions or shared goals, the only reason I had to be around you was that I wanted to. And that,” he swallowed, throat sticking, “...that couldn’t be rationalized into an excuse that made sense. That was acceptable. Not even under the guise of tradition or habit.”

Aziraphale surveyed the room before giving a small twirl of his wrist. A table, simple and elegant sprouted into creation between the two floor-to-ceiling windows. It looked as out of place as the angel, as the jasmine plant and its wicker basket.

“What did you think would happen?” questioned Aziraphale. He turned, hands outstretched for the plant Crowley clutched like a shield. Their eyes met over the tiny blossoms, the tips of their fingers nearly brushing as Crowley handed it over it. “If you’d shown up at the shop today?”

“You’d wonder what I was doing there,” Crowley said. Aziraphale placed the homey gift on the table, then stepped back to consider it. “It would click I had no reason to be there anymore. That it didn’t make sense, our continuing on.”

One of the taller plants leaned forward, leaves rustling, its vines curling and uncurling like the arms of an octopus.

Aziraphale turned his head, then dropped his gaze. “You’re right,” he agreed, tucking the table and plant into the corner against the planter box. “That is better.”

Crowley watched the plants brush leaves and vines like house pets meeting for the first time. He marvelled at it, this display unlike anything he saw from them.

Pivoting, Aziraphale settled his hands on his hips as he considered Crowley. “Don’t you think if I wasn’t exactly where I wanted to be, if things weren’t as I’d have them be, you’d _know_ ? We’re meant to be _enemies_ , Crowley. If I didn’t want you around, I’ve had six thousand years to get rid of you. Hell, I could have given Heaven your bloody home address and phone number instead of reporting back like I was humanity’s last line of defence against your nefarious ways.”

“You didn’t want to go back, though. You love being on Earth.”

“You’re part of that!” Aziraphale exclaimed. “Hell, you’re… you’re what’s holding it all together. Without you, Earth would feel as lonely and empty as Heaven.” He clicked his tongue, looking one wrong word away from stamping his foot. “I didn’t risk death or execution in order to keep _sushi_ and _first-editions_ , Crowley!”

Crowley said nothing, and Aziraphale sighed. The tension and irritation melted from Aziraphale’s form as he heaved a sigh, looking weary and soft as he stood there studying Crowley.

How could those blue eyes make Crowley feel vulnerable and exposed in his own home? As though vast emptiness of the space was instead filled with all the things Crowley never said, the glances he’d stolen, the actions he’d never followed through on.

Crowley dropped his gaze and swallowed, wanting to fold his arms over his chest or rub at his sleeve but recognizing the actions for the self-comforting, protective gestures they were. Instead, he shifted his weight to one foot, hand settling on the bony jut of his hip.

Aziraphale’s sigh was quieter, the soles of his leather shoes nearly soundless as they stepped into Crowley’s line of sight just before Aziraphale reached out with both hands, curling them in the lapels of Crowley’s jacket.

Crowley blinked rapidly, head jerking up and brows knitting together over ocher eyes.

There was a crease between Aziraphale’s eyebrows, his eyes dulled by resignation as they took in Crowley’s features from up close. “Crowley… you’re my only reason, too.”

The sudden, deafening sound of blood rushing in his ears, the sharp pinpricks in his eyes, caught Crowley off guard, nostrils flaring as his mouth wobbled at the corners and he tried to swallow the battering ram of emotions back down into the dark of his heart where he kept them secret.

“Angel…” he rasped. His fingers trembled as he gripped the coat fabric of Aziraphale’s upper arms.

“So!” said Aziraphale, his posture and eyes sharpening with intent. “On this day, this tradition celebrating lovers _you_ invented, will _you_ , Anthony J. Crowley, be my Valentine?”

A laugh, wet and shaky spluttered out of Crowley, and he fought to blink back the tears blurring his vision.

“Always, angel,” Crowley promised in a whisper. “Always.”

END

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**Author's Note:**

> To make sure you don't miss any updates or fics not posted to AO3, be sure to check out [this Tumblr post](https://tenoko1.tumblr.com/post/179156377623/how-you-can-support-creators) about updates, x-posting, announcements, schedules, and works that _don't_ get posted to AO3.


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